First Nights
by Digitaldreamer
Summary: Stanley Pines has a lot of first nights. He never seems to sleep for any of them. Character study set during and after A Tale of Two Stans.


It is the first night and he is too hot to sleep.

The New Jersey night is warm, a suffocating, stuffy promise of the coming summer. The air in the car feels hot, still, silent. It lacks the spring breeze from a frayed window screen and the low hum of a broken down fan, the gentle creak of the top bunk and the comforting breaths that come with it.

Stanley bolts upward from the backseat of his car, grasping the window lever with whitened knuckles. Several squeaky jerks to let in a hint of fresh air, the whiff of sea breeze allowing a brief release of pressure.

There is a shout from down the street. A barking dog. Couples fighting. A police siren wails.

He rolls the window back up. Twists in the backseat, tries to ignore the way the leather seat clings to his sweat-soaked cheek and the bruise upon it.

It'll be fine in the morning.

—

It is the first night after the Stan-Vac sells and there is no way he's gonna sleep.

Stanley is elated, a whirlwind of energy. His laughter comes long and loud as it floats on cloud nine (or ten or eleven, there is a lot of cigarette smoke in here and it seems to congeal in the air like stormclouds in his old man's expression) in some dingy bar. He orders up a round, five rounds, ten, tells joke after joke and the girls love him, that backwater bar loves him, they all love him.

Stanley cannot lose. The shots line up for pool and when they don't, it's a careful nudge to the eight ball for another round. The beers are cold, crisp in his hands like the dollar bills in his pocket, his smile is easy and wild and suits his slicked back hair and expression.

He laughs and he laughs and finally at three AM he stumbles into the hot July night to make a phone call.

Stanley's chuckle echoes across the parking lot as the dial tone rings. Man, what should he start with? Preferably an insult, definitely an insult, maybe something about those glasses or that chin or how he heard college is–

" _Yeah, uh, hi? This is Dorm B, may I ask who's–"_

He slams the phone down. The empty bottle slips from his hand, shatters on the sidewalk. He lets out a shuddering breath, palms at now empty pockets.

Whatever. He'd make more tomorrow.

—

It is the first night with her that he cannot sleep.

She rolls over next to him, sighs in contentment. He rises, pads across threadbare motel carpet, enters the bathroom for the fourth time in an hour.

The cheap fan that accompanies the flickering yellowed lighting roars when he flips the switch. Gray eyes pierce a dirtied mirror, seek out the reflection of his stubbled jaw and broad, slumped shoulders. He flashes a forced grin that drops the second he takes in the mussed remains of slicked back hair.

Too short. That wasn't the style now. Maybe if he grew it out she'd stay, but christ, he hated bell bottoms and they both knew it.

"What do you think, dummy?" Stanley mumbles to the mirror. He can almost imagine the nasally wheeze about evidence and hypothosises, hard facts at odds with the six-fingered hand on his shoulder.

He laughs, the sound echoing in the hollow of the cracked bathtub and his chest. The face in the mirror reflects his expression and days lost.

Whatever. Wasn't he the one who was supposed to give the advice on girls anyway?

Maybe tomorrow would be better.

—

It is his first night in Columbia and he is already regretting the decision. He is choking in the humidity, jolting up from his prison bunk and pacing as a drowning man coming up for air.

The moonlight sketches the bars across the dirty floor, stretches them long and dark across cracked concrete. They are monster claws in the night and all he can think of is scary stories told under blanket forts, growls brought to life in the way only a cheap flashlight could afford.

There is the squeak of rusted bunk springs, a low hiss in spanish. Stanley can't speak it, but the echo of pain from scabs on his knuckles and the memory of a crude knife against his throat is enough for him to understand.

He slides back onto the bunk, licks the sweat caked at the edge of his lips and tries to pretend the sour taste is seasalt.

Maybe in the morning he'd get his phone call.

—

It is his first night with hope and he is in the back of his car again.

The snow is thick and heavy, piling against the windows. The blizzard snaps and howls, a monster nipping at his heels with that draft from the passenger seat door that he's never been able to fix. He shivers in his seat, wraps the stained comforter he stole from that motel in Charlotte tightly around his winter coat. Sweat pooled under the layers, goose down never breathed well even when there wasn't much left of it, but he didn't dare remove anything.

He didn't have to be a damn rocket scientist to know it was freezing, thanks.

He sniffled as he gazed down at the postcard in his mittened hand. "The hell are you doing in the middle of a freezing shithole like this?" Stanley grumbled as he pulled the blanket closer.

Whatever. The storm would pass tomorrow.

Probably.

—

It is his first night in the shack and he is burning.

More accurately, he'd _been_ burned, and in the wee hours of the morning his shoulder had finally decided to speak up about it. The pain hits in a throbbing agony that rolls over him in waves, matches his too loud heartbeat in his ears.

He'd gotten to it too late. The first aid kit had been well stocked when he'd found it (which had been a chore in itself, and wasn't that just like Stanford to keep a perfectly stocked first aid kit tangled somewhere in a pile of dreamcatchers and ratty old sweaters) but dealing with a shoulder wound on your own was hardly an easy task. Dealing with it after hours of beating his fists on machines and shattering lab equipment hadn't been a great plan either. He should've gotten some of the damn snow on it within minutes of it happening, and all Stanley can think of is that time when he was a kid and he'd burned his arm on the stove and there had been Stanford tugging it under the tap and ranting about how it'd scar and it seemed so dumb when _he_ was the one who was supposed to be the big twin and—

His chest tightens. His eyes squeeze shut but the scent of ozone from downstairs is caught in his nostrils, the flash of lightning and his mirrored, horrified expression trapped behind his eyelids. He shifts on the couch under the makeshift blanket of his coat, tries to get comfortable.

Bad move. His shirt rubs against his shoulder and he lets out a gasp of pain, fist flying upwards so he can clench his teeth down on his knuckle to stifle a cry. The unfamiliar room spins, cold winter moonlight outside tracing shadows across the stupid outdated woodpecker calendar, the battered chair, a shirt left dirty and forgotten on the stupid shag carpet. The room feels too big compared to his car and the motel rooms he's used to, and even with the howl of the wind outside the heat is still working and it's more than he's had in so long and how can he even think that when that _thing_ is down there and his brother—

Stanley sucks in several breaths as he rolls over, pushes his face into the backrest of the couch in an effort to block out the damn room. "It's fine, you dumbass." He whimpers to no one and it's truly no one now, just the memory of a six-fingered hand pushing his burnt arm under the leaky faucet.

"It'll be fine tomorrow."

—

It is his first night as Stanford and he does not know what to feel.

He shoves his way through the front door and slams it shut, knocks several books to the floor in his haste to make space for the two grocery bags he'd hauled from town. The paper bags seem heavy, impossibly heavy, and how long had it been since he'd even had the ingredients for a sandwich?

It's only after he's wolfed down his third sandwich and shoved aside some experiment three-five-nine (were those newts eyes? What.) in the fridge to make space for the half empty mayonnaise jar that he really thinks about it. There he was, shoving aside his brother's crap for his own, putting groceries into the fridge like he owned the place.

Well, he supposed he technically did. _Stanley_ didn't have a penny to his name, but Stanford…

Stanford had a shack. It was a shithole, but it was a shack. It had heat. Running water. A refrigerator. A shower that worked (kind of). A dresser full of clothes that vaguely fit. He had furniture, though plenty of it was splintered and ruined. Stanford was also God knows where, even he was even alive.

Stanley shook his head. He went back to pushing experiments aside, ignoring the clinking of glass as he hefted up a milk jug and shook it. The chunks within it swirled. He tossed it aside.

He would work on getting the damn _thing_ open tomorrow. Right now there were other concerns— the mortgage bill shoved into the mail slot, the on-and-off hot water situation, the leaking roof.

Besides, if— _when_ his brother got back tomorrow (definitely tomorrow), he'd probably want a sandwich.

—

The first night the kids came, he couldn't sleep.

He'd tried. He'd laid there on old woolen blankets and gazed up at the weird diagonal slant of his ceiling, tried to ignore the remembered throb in his shoulder and the sound of that damn cricket that had made its way into the rafters again. But then had come the memories, two dumb kids punching each other and laughing, and rather abruptly four AM TV sounded really great.

So he'd been sitting there in the armchair, his back sunk into cushions and old springs, the glow of the screen stretching across yellowed shag carpet. He tapped at the remote halfheartedly, noting absently that there was far more static than usual and at this rate he'd have to pound the thing to show it who was boss yet again.

Stan heard the kid before he saw her. To his credit, he didn't jump, mostly because he was so familiar with the creaks of this old shack that he could place their source regardless of the room. Usually the creaks could be blamed on the occasionally eight-eyed squirrel or Soos staying _far_ later than was necessary— but no, tonight it was the twelve-year old gremlins he'd somehow got caught under his feet.

"Grunkle Stan, what are you doing up?" Mabel asked as she wandered into the room, rubbing at bleary eyes. "Don't you know you need your beauty sleep?"

Stan snorted at that. "What do you think, kiddo?"

"You obviously don't need it?" Mabel's eyes flicked to the television screen and she let out a gasp, pointing at the screen. "Is that a tiger with a fist coming out of its back!?"

"What?" The old man blinked and turned back to the screen. "Why yes, yes it does."

"That practically means it can pet itself!" Mabel exclaimed as she launched herself across the room, throwing herself down on the floor in front of his slippered feet.

Stan's brow furrowed. "Uh, kid, I don't—"

"Mabel, you're so loud…" Dipper's groan could be heard as he made his way down the hall. "Come on, mom and dad wouldn't—" Here he paused as he poked his head into the living room. "Grunkle Stan? You were sleeping like the whole afternoon, how are you awake _now_?"

"And you were blabbering about bigfoot all afternoon, so how about you lay off my back?" Stan grunted in return.

"Huh, nice to know your come-backs get lazier at three AM," The boy said as he rubbed at his eyes. Then he squinted at the static-y TV screen. "Does that tiger have a human fist coming out of his back or are your TV channels just that scrambled?"

Stan blinked at the kid, then looked to the television that he hadn't really been watching. "Yes. Yes it does."

"That's just stupid enough for me to care." Dipper's socked feet pattered across the carpet and he flopped down next to Mabel on the floor."

"Hey, hey, who said you could sit there!?" The old man grumbled as he pulled his feet back. "Also it is seriously like four AM, I think I'm supposed to like… tell you you're growing or… ground you or…"

His words trailed off as the twins laughed at whatever was going on with the damn tiger. Stan blinked down at them for a moment, then let out a sigh and let his feet stretch out again, absently poking Mabel's side with his slippered foot and taking in Dipper's dry commentary.

Fine. Whatever. They drowned out the damn cricket at least.

But he'd definitely have a harder stance on this crap tomorrow.

—

It's the first night in thirty years since his brother got back, and of course, he did not sleep.

He claimed he would, shuffled off to his room with a grumble. He'd unbuttoned his now torn suit jacket and placed his fez back to its place of honor on his desk, grimaced at the dirt stains in his shirt. As if fixing up the shack before tourists came rolling in wasn't enough of a problem, now he'd have to get Soos to clean the damn suit too.

He flops onto his bed without bothering to move the blankets, stares up at that stupid slanted ceiling and abruptly finds himself remembering finding this room as little more than storage space thirty years ago. Just a place for his brother to shove old experiments and yearbooks, things he didn't need, didn't want…

Fitting.

The floorboards creaked. Drawers shifted. He caught the sound of his brother's grumbling, a low rumble that did not suit the childhood laughter he remembered. More shuffling with thick-soled, worn boots. The footsteps were unfamiliar, alien, a stranger in this house that was his but not.

Stanford— Stanley, he was Stanley now, just Stanley once again and really not even that anymore—rolled over and grabbed the old glasses frames from his bedside table, traced his fingers across smudged glass. Then he sighed and set them back down, pulled off his own glasses and set them aside as well.

Maybe tomorrow would be better.


End file.
